


His Last Case

by Ohsocorny101



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ohsocorny101/pseuds/Ohsocorny101
Summary: The day I lost him, was the day I died.





	

The day I lost him, was the day I died.

It was never the fact he had no friends, he did. But it was yet, the fact that he, somehow, in the middle of a crowded room, felt lonely. John Watson was never the one to speak first; to make the first move. He would usually standby and watch the world run along, not taking in anything around him; oblivious. Even when he was younger, it was always his sister, Harry, who’d be the one to talk. That, was until he met Sherlock Holmes.  
Sherlock lay across the sofa, brandishing a large harpoon in his clasp. He slowly wiped the cloth along the shaft of the metal blade, attempting to clean off the pig’s blood, yet somehow just smudging it further along the pole. He sighed and stood up, his navy-blue robe swishing behind him as he did so. Stepping onto the coffee table, he let out a loud frustrated sigh, startling Watson who had begun to fall asleep next to the fire.   
"John, get me some" Sherlock demanded, throwing the harpoon to the floor.  
"What?" The tanned blonde replied, moving his head in the others direction.  
"You know what" He sternly replied, deepening his voice in annoyance, glaring at John.  
"No Sherlock, we said cold turkey" he stated, turning back around to face the fire.  
There was silence.  
“John...” his voice cracked.   
It was quiet.   
John lifted his heavy head from his fisted hand and placed his book on the side table making minimal noise. He revolved on the spot and walked over to Sherlock. He breathed in, closing his eyes before taking Sherlock’s shaking hand in his. He could see the pupils dilate from the contact between the two men. John had never been this sincere before, which inevitably shook Sherlock, yet did not surprise him as for he had seen this before with Mary.   
“Sherlock.” Both the boy’s eyes met one another’s. “I know it’s hard, believe me. But it’s for the greater good” Their eyes lingered, fixed upon one another. John broke the stare, heading back to his chair by the fire, before stopping dead in his tracks from hearing a light clicking noise from behind. He swung round to see Sherlock lighting a cigarette; stolen from john’s pocket in which he keeps them out of reach, or so he thought.   
“Sherlock” John’s eyebrows furled as he made an inwards groan of annoyance. His fist tensed his grasp.  
“Yes john?” blinked Sherlock, puffing out smoke as he exhaled. John didn’t reply, but yet he huffed under his breath. Pulling his head back in anger, he stormed out of the room before Sherlock could irate him any longer. Sherlock tried to call after him, apologising, but it was too late. He could only hear the heavy footsteps and the bang of John’s bedroom door.  
Sherlock stared through the translucent window onto the stairs for a long while, contemplating if he should go up and say sorry. He wasn’t good at this kind of stuff. He looked at the cigarette that lay between his fingers. Should I? he flicked the ashes onto the floor, treading them with his bare foot. Mrs Hudson will kill him for that. He sighed, before sauntering into the kitchen. He turned the tap on over the sink and threw the cig in, soaking it as the smoke dispersed for one last time.  
“For John…”

"You-hoo, anyone in?" Mrs Hudson chimed as she opened the door to see Sherlock slumped over his laptop. Well, John's. As soon as Sherlock noticed, he slammed the lid shut and lay it on the desk.  
"Where's John?" She asks, before laying down Sherlock’s morning tea and biscuits.   
"I don't know, upstairs?" Sherlock’s clearly annoyed tone was picked up by Mrs Hudson as she gave him a sorrowful look. "What are you still doing here!" He snapped, not making eye contact with the woman.  
"You know, all relationships have downs" Mrs Hudson said, with a sense of goodwill. He liked her, but she had an awful habit of giving good advice.   
John entered the room holding a packet of cigarettes.  
"Ah John, we're leaving" Sherlock found his chance to leave, and grabbed both his coat. John could barely say a word in edgeways before being shoved out of the door by Sherlock, and down the stairs. He pulled on his kaki jacket and grabbed his scarf without hesitation.   
"What was that all about?" He asks Sherlock, watching him tie his scarf round his neck.  
"Uh, just Mrs Hudson giving advice" he tightened his mouth, exaggerating his dislike of such a thing, especially coming from his land lady.   
"Where are we going?" John asked, waiting for Holmes  
"Somewhere dangerous" he replied.  
"My gun is upstairs"  
"No it’s not" Sherlock smirked at John, handing him his firearm. “I won’t be needing these” he took the packet of cancerous cigarettes and threw them into one of Mrs Hudson’s bins before opening the door and facing out into the street.  
John’s warm smile caused Sherlock to roll his eyes before being beckoned into the awaiting taxi, that however didn’t stop john from thinking that he was the man that could change the Sherlock Holmes. 

“So, where are we actually going?” john questioned, stepping into the cab, shutting the door behind him.  
“I have this case. I think the mistress is working for a vast drug network, possibly intertwined with Moriaty. It’s big, I can’t cover it alone. It’s like fine dust John!” he continues, thinking john is following along, yet his expression said otherwise. “it’s everywhere and you can’t get rid of it. If I brush it off, it will only accumulate further, a never-ending cycle.”  
“why the mistress? Sex?”  
“possibly her nails prove so, exploitation? Could be coping Irene Adler, but it’s not for protection, then what for.”  
“her nails?” john looking utterly bewildered, this was a new one for the Watson boy.   
“Oooh john, you see but you do not observe. Its right under your nose.” John just glared at Sherlock, clearly not amused by his cocky uptake.   
“john, someone who clearly indulges in sexual acts with others does not simply keep one’s nails long, as it would be a danger for both themselves and their participant.” John’s never actually heard Sherlock talk about such a delicate and obscene subject like this before. He wondered how on earth Sherlock would even know this, experience perhaps, but even that would shock john. His curiosity got the better of him however, and he clearly couldn’t help himself but ask.   
“have you ever, err” john blushes slightly, and clears his throat before continuing. Usually john isn’t shy to talk about such a thing, but to Sherlock, it was different, intimate almost. “you know, had experiences?” john couldn’t look Sherlock straight in the eyes, but he angled his face towards the man.  
“John, if you are indicating- “he was interrupted by john who forced himself to lock eyes with the clearly uncomfortable man.  
“Sherlock, seriously. Have you ever got… intermate?” a true desire of inquisitiveness excelled from his voice, which made Sherlock think. “it’s just me, its ok.”   
“Yes, more than once.” And that was that. There was no explanation needed, no detail of any kind. John smiled softly at Sherlock. They remained eye contact for a while, before Sherlock broke it, looking up he stopped the cab.  
“We’re here” Sherlock announced, jumping out of the cab, keeping the door open for john to follow.  
“Islington?”

It didn’t take long to get to the right place. The deep crimson door of the terrace house gave it away. They walked up the stone steps and rang the doorbell. They waited, yet there was no answer. Sherlock stepped up to the door, tracing his fingers along the lock, he felt scratches. He gently pushed the door to; it was opened. He gave a quick side glance to john, and entered. The door opened wide, lighting up the inside with the warm glow from the ever-descending sun. They walk gingerly into the room, Sherlock ahead. It was eerily quiet. Too quiet. The two agreed to separate, Sherlock downstairs and John up. Sherlock turned right, into the living room. Clearly this woman had a lot of money, the decor was rich with colours, deep rouges and whites, together with the silk black that outlined everything in the room giving it class: elegance. He approached the glass coffee table, littered with holiday pamphlets, underneath even lay a passport. He picked up, examining it: Madeline Archer. Sherlock flipped through the many pages of passport stamps and signatures. “She’s well-travelled” Sherlock shouts up to John, placing the booklet back down.  
“Was.” John replied. He stepped back down the stairs halfway, he gestured to Sherlock to come up. “I don’t think she’ll be travelling too soon” Sherlock was confused, for once, but eagerly followed John up the stairs into the master bedroom. His confusion was met with realisation as he saw the discovery. John stepped out of the room so he could call Scotland Yard about their findings. Sherlock walked further into the room, he pulled the curtains open, throwing light over Madeline. Sherlock whipped out his gloves and began to analysis every part; every inch. Words sprang up on every touch. He picked up her hand, dull ring, yet polished inside so this was her: the mistress. He fingered carefully through the woman’s suit case that was left half full, open on the bed. Off somewhere hot? He found a note in one of the pockets, an address, in Mexico. After minuets of rigorous searching and analysis, john came back in, followed by an keen Lestrade.   
“well that was quick” Sherlock noticed as the detective entered.  
“So, what have we got Sherlock?”  
“Madeline Archer, 34 years old. Connected to a large drug cartel, murdered by strangulation by her own scarf. Clearly a mistress, but to another female obviously.”  
“Obviously?” Greg asked, just in curiosity.  
“The nails.” He picked up the woman’s hand, showing the length of them. “The extra pair of lingerie, yet not in her own size.” Pointing to the suitcase; “Clearly in some kind of same-sex affair, something john now also goes for” Sherlock smirked at john, but it didn’t last as he was met with an exasperate stare of anger and vehemence. John’s fist tightened, as he breathed heavily through his nose. He was about to say something but kept back. He stood up straight, his eyes still fixated on Sherlock. He turned around in annoyance and left for the stairs. His heavy steps echoed back to Sherlock and a very confused Lestrade. A loud bang from the door being shut finally gave Sherlock the motivation to go after him. I mean, he is his best friend…

“John!” a desperate voice called behind the man furiously walking around house set ups and furniture layouts. He had smaller legs, yet his pace was dramatically fast for Sherlock who was almost skipping to keep up. “I said something dangerous john, why aren’t you listening to me” his voice becoming ever more frantic as john started to fonder the gentle fluff of a cream rug. John continued to walk down the aisle, caressing ever piece of carpet he could, knowing it would annoy Sherlock.  
“oh, I see” Sherlock’s tone dropped in realisation, stepping back. The quiff of john’s hair waved slightly as he jolted his head towards Sherlock’s.  
“you do, do you?” John’s eyes widened with frustration, expecting Sherlock to shut up.  
“look, I’m sorry I- “he was cut off.  
“I don’t care Sherlock. Heck, next time you need to learn to keep your mouth shut for one goddamn minute” he walked off quickly, Sherlock still following like a little puppy.  
“john please”  
“no Sherlock. You humiliated me in front of the whole of Scotland Yard. I quite liked working with them and now they’ll never take me seriously because you blurted out something I’ve only told you. I trusted you Sherlock.” he paused before trying to reassure Sherlock, and probably himself, that what he said was only an accident and it was just in the spur of the moment. “that I’m OCCASIONALLY into men” his voice loud, forgetting for the moment he was in the eye of the people. It wasn’t until Sherlock was silenced and he stopped staring at the innocence on the man’s face, that he looked around warily, seeing how everyone was just staring at the two. John’s head lowered, before grabbing the bar of the shopping trolley and headed to the checkout. Leaving an apologetic Sherlock standing there, his arm stretched out towards john.

Sherlock woke to the sound of a loud thud coming from the living room. He grabbed his navy dressing gown, wrapping it round his exposed body and tying it to the front with a swift motion. He stumbled into the room where he saw a small hobbit like man crouched over wood and nails. The creature threw his head back in irritation, before seeing an upside-down half naked Sherlock giggling at him.  
“Can I help you?” john asks, spinning round on the floor to face him, a hammer in one hand, and a bent nail in the other.  
“I was about to ask you the same” Sherlock chuckled seeing a bewildered and frustrated man sat like a mardy toddler on the floor. Sherlock knelt down and started to place nails in places that didn’t look right, and boards where the nails where meant to go.  
“Sherlock, just hand me the instructions you’re doing it all wrong” john tried to snatch the paper from the man’s grasp but failed.  
“the instructions are wrong john! I’ve got this” his words were met with more anger and more frustration. It was only but 8 hours later, that the two boys where found by Mrs Hudson the next day. It was john to wakeup first, to see the old lady staring down at both of them. She saw the state of the room and left quickly huffing and talking to herself, hands in the air. John was confused. He looked around him, and it was carnage. There were screws and backboards everywhere. They moved the chairs in the night so they could get more room, so now that it was dangerous to walk anywhere without having the fear of standing on a nail. Apparently, it was john’s brilliant idea to bring in scotch half way through the ordeal last night, yet from his eyes now, it was a bad idea. Especially, when he noticed the once full bottle, lay empty at the feet of the man he was sleeping next to. Sherlock’s arm drooped over john’s waist, whilst his legs lay bare, only his dressing gown blocked the view of something a little old lady and possibly his flatmate wouldn’t like to see.  
John stuttered and stood up quickly, waking up a mumbling Sherlock in the process. John stood up on the couch that the two were previously sleeping against, and threw a pillow at Sherlock.  
“what’s this for? “Sherlock grabbed the pillow, looking at john.  
“to cover up, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked confused. The two made eye contact, instantly laughing together.  
“we’re never doing that again” john jumped down from the sofa, reaching out his hand for Sherlock.  
“never.” He took johns hand, lifting himself up, placing another hand on john’s shoulder. He looked straight in john’s grey eyes, glimmers of blue exploded from the centre.  
“anyway” Sherlock diverted his eyes elsewhere. His eyes glanced over the disordered apartment, before returning to john’s gaze.  
“breakfast… out?”

It was already 7 in the morning, yet the sun was only hovering above the skyline of the Thames. Winter mornings in London were frosty. With every breath, out came a gentle burst of condsention, as if you were to breath the fire from a mythical beast. Over the night, dew drops collected on the grass, until now freezing over, leaving a silver layer of ice across everything, printing an impression at the touch. The boy’s feet crunched with every step, leaving large footprints behind in the light frost. The silence between the two was comfortable as they slowly strolled through the jungle of reaching skyscrapers and towering high-risers; all put together with the small bustling shops and stores, already crowded with people looking for last-minute Christmas gifts and stocking fillers. The gentle brush of Sherlock’s gloved hands against johns was mutual, a look was not needed, yet both already knew as Sherlock subtly curved his pinkie round john’s.  
John unclasped his hand from the gentle lock of fingers, to press the button for the traffic lights. His other hand held a steaming hot chocolate; peppermint infused. The little walking man flashed green, so the two started to walk over. Suddenly, from the right, Sherlock heard the erratic screeching tyres of a Porsche speeding towards the two. It was like slow motion. Sherlock didn’t know what else to do other than push john out of the way. The poor man couldn’t even see the car in front of Sherlock. But it was too fast; a blur. John’s head hit the floor: hard. His hot beverage spilled over his naked hand and sleeve, john winced harshly, cursing under his breath from the searing pain. His eyes adjusting. His head spinning; he tried to get up but his arm hurt so much. He sat up, his arm resting on his lap. Where was Sherlock? In front of him he could only see the car and a sea of people heading towards the front. The horn drowning out any other sound. It wouldn’t stop. John managed to get himself up, yet with the consequence of excruciating pain coming from his arm: broken. He slowly stood up, but something caught his eye. It wasn’t the sheer destruction of the hood of the car, nor was it that the lifeless driver of the car had his head pressed against the wheel; his forehead shaved off from the glass that had managed to slice into his head. But it was the black figure mere feet from the front of the car that lay in a peculiar position that none would be able replicate naturally.   
John staggers breathless as quickly as he can to the body that lay before him.  
“Sherlock” his voice cracking. John ran over to Sherlock; a limp Sherlock. The doctor grabbed the wrist of the dying detective, nothing. His finger pressed against the shrinking veins. Johns eyes started to well up, he can’t lose him; not again. “Help… somebody” he barely whispered: broken. He could scarcely see out of his watery eyes, but he could see enough; Sherlock wasn’t responding. John ignored the people staring around him, and lay down next to him. Resting his own arm on the cold tarmac floor, blood trickling through the cracks. “not again” tears started rolling down john’s face as he pressed his own against Sherlock’s cold forehead; closing his eyes. “not again”.

John woke to the sound of beeping. His eyes adjusted to the beaming light above him, his head aching. At first everything was blurry, a mess of colours, but as he opened his eyes wider he started to see where he was. Hospital. It’ unusual for him to be a patient; he felt uncomfortable – vulnerable. He felt a hand run over his, holding them. The warmth was comforting. He slowly tuned his head to see Mrs Hudson smiling gently at him. He returned the gesture with a weak smile. It didn’t take him long to wonder where his partner in crime was.  
“Sherlock? Is he ok?” john’s voice was hoarse.  
Mrs Hudson could only look sorrowfully at him. She saw how hurt and lost John looked; “He’ll be ok.” She rubbed john’s hand soothingly, as he stared out in front of him, emotionless. It didn’t make it any easier for the doctor. He lay back, closing his eyes to be only met with flashbacks. The noises, the smells, the senses seemed so much more alive in his imagination. Nothing would rid him of the memory of seeing his best friend, fly across the street like a rag doll: nothing.   
It was another hour and a half before there was any mention of the Holmes boy. The doctor looking after him came over to john’s bed in which the poor man lay still, and quiet as friends stood awkwardly around, trying to think of something to cheer up the man.   
“Are you Sherlock Holmes’ boyfriend?” the doctor asked harmlessly. John’s eyes widened slightly in annoyance, but shook his head slowly at him, but not making eye contact.   
“Friend” he replayed, head down: “Is he ok?” John’s head looking up ever so slightly, to show interest. The doctor paused, looking down at his clipboard.  
“He suffered major injury Dr Watson.” Again, he paused, knowing the news wasn’t good: “There was significant damage to his head, thus causing a degree of damage on his brain.”   
He was interrupted by a very impatient John. “But is he ok? Can he talk? Can I see him?”   
“You’re a doctor, right?” the man in white responded, avoiding the questions. John nodded. The doctor walked over to the bed side and pulled out A4 sheets of glossy paper of x-rays.  
“You see here?” the doctor pointed to a dark spot towards the front of the brain.  
“Yes”  
“Well, from impact his forehead has been… crushed” this was hard for even the doctor. John just nodded. He didn’t know what to do. doctor or not. His eyes began to slowly fill with water, yet he blinked it back. He couldn’t let people know. “Well, this has blocked posterior cerebral arteries behind the eye.” John swallowed: hard. His mouth and throat dry, just thinking of the possible outcome or long or short term effects. The doctor continued; “He went into surgery straight away. It’s too dangerous to go in and unblock them, there’s too much in causing more brain damage. From further analysing, we also found he has visual anosognosia”   
“What’s that?” Mrs Hudson carefully interrupted, hands enclosed around johns sweating, shaking hands. The doctor gently turned his head in her direction, taking a breath.  
“It’s a rare symptom of brain damage occurring in the occipital lobe, miss. A neurological condition related to cortical blindness”.   
She gasped. Her hand raised to her mouth in shock, her frail eyes widened as they quickly filled with tears.  
“Blindness?” she whispered, her eyes trained on the doctor.   
He nodded; “There’s a chance he won’t, and the body will recover on its own. But it’s slim.”  
Her sobs rang through the building as she leant her delicate head on john’s shoulder. Her hands pulled her and john’s closer to her bosom: closer to her heart. It was motionless throughout the enclosed confines of the room. Not one could look up, nor even comprehend the factor that the most famous, and only, consulting detective could be blind. What would he have left?  
John’s head hung down, but the clear shaking of his head and the water stains on his cover showed the distress. His best friend, blind?   
Blind? No. He’s Sherlock Holmes. He survived a gun shot, he can survive this. He can’t lose his sight. It’s everything to him. Every deduction, every analysis, every inference; from his eyes. Dear god, what will this do to him? From the moment I met him, he knew everything about me from just one look. And now? I don’t want to think of him sat alone in his chair. Just staring into nothing. Just doing nothing. Sherlock, you’re everything to me. No matter what people say, you always have, from the very start. Although we may not be able to steal each other’s glances, or take gentle walks in dusk together or even stay up and watch junk television, but one thing will remain the same. I will always protect you. Whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there: always.

A nurse wheeled John into the room next door. She silently pushed the squeaking chair up against the hospital bed. John nodded at the woman who promptly left, closing the door as she did so. It was quiet. John could only stare. His best friend lay still, plugged and intertwined with wires and cables, with a soft beep of the heart rate monitor. He stared at the man he fell in love with, broken, sore and bandaged from head to toe. His eyes covered in cotton circles and a bandage, slight hints of a red dye that grew from within. Sherlock mumbled, catching John’s attention.  
“This… this is the best... I’ve ever looked” it was silent as john just stayed at him disapprovingly. But it wasn’t long before John broke and sniggered at Sherlock shaking his head smiling, Sherlock, himself, giggling under his breath before stopping and coughing.   
“How did we get here?” john asked, his smile fading away.   
Sherlock sighed; “I don’t know john.” His hand, as weak as it was, slowly felt out john’s fingers, wrapping them tightly, making sure he would never go. There was a long silence, a comfortable silence.  
“Can you see? Can you see me?” john placed his other hand on top of his and Sherlock’s. Looking up at the man.   
“Yes, I can see. I can see you, John” his face, dressed in bandages, turned to john who just looked sad. It had already begun.  
The doctor had warned him about this. Many patients who suffer from blindness, especially so sudden after a traumatic injury, think they can still see. To them, everything’s fine. They can see what they imagine to be a hospital room. They can imagine the smells, the tastes, the feelings to make everything seem even more real. But in actual fact, they’re still blind. For Sherlock, this was worse. For a man who has heightened senses and has frequent visits to his mind palace, this will seem as real as ever. He’s a stubborn man, so it is unlikely he will come to terms with his actual blindness, and just pass off any small mistakes or moment of unease to be pure clumsiness, or just to being high.   
“What am I wearing?” John asks gently.   
“What?” Sherlock sounded confused, could john not know what he’s wearing?  
“Just please, describe everything I’m wearing...” Sherlock sighed and sat up, wincing in pain.  
“Your black coat, the one with little leather patches” Sherlock gestured gently with his hands. “with a questionable beige checked shirt under neither. Urm, dark black jeans and shoes, a horrible shade of brown.”   
John swallowed. he pulled his kaki sleeve of his jacket down and adjusted the collar of his dark burgundy shirt in unease.   
“Did I get it?” Sherlock asked, playing along; “Did I win?” he added, raising his hands playfully facing john, a smile across his face.  
John’s eyes filled with tears. He lifted his head up to look at Sherlock, waiting patiently.  
“Yes Sherlock, yes you did” silence filled the room once again. Neither boy knew what to do, nor what to say so they just sat in one another’s company. Could this, be it? Could this be what life was going to be like for the next 50 years? It was only Sherlock to break the stillness.  
“I know...” Sherlock lowered his tone, softly. John sunk his head down on Sherlock’s lap, before bursting out into tears. Sherlock lifted his free hand and stroked john’s head, sliding his fingers through his hair tenderly. “I just thought, if I played along, you know…” he massaged john’s head. Sherlock lifted john’s head so they were facing one another. He gently pulled his other hand up and wiped john’s tears away. “It’s okay” he tried to reassure John.  
“It’s not okay” his voice trembling.  
“No, but it is what it is…” Sherlock brought john’s head up to his chest, laying him gently as he wept through his hospital gown. Sherlock caressed john’s back, feeling every inch, feeling every intake and release of air, building up in John’s lungs before spilling back out with a cry of grief. John’s head lay right on top of Sherlock’s torso, he felt every quiver of his beating heart, every breath he took. Both lay there listening to each other’s hums, none of which both ever wanted to forget. The peaceful harmony of Sherlock’s chest rising and falling comforted john, knowing although his best friend would never see again, at least he was still alive.   
They said it would be tough, the weeks of him being back. But I never knew it was going to be so emotionally draining. Seeing Sherlock sat alone in his chair, just staring out into nothing. He barely talked, he rarely ate, I don’t even think he ever slept. It was hard. The first week was hard. But, if didn’t compare to the day I lost him; nothing ever felt the same again.  
I had had my arm wrapped around Sherlock shoulders, my other hand lay on his torso, guiding him into the flat. It took a while to get up the steps, every inch higher took even more out of the man. I remember him leaning on me for support, his hand gripping onto mine. I slowly let him slump down into his chair, placing a blanket over him, tucking it around him.   
It was quiet though. I wanted to stay, look after him 24/7 but I had to go to the shops, the fridge for ever empty. I thought he would be ok on his own, only for half an hour. He looked somewhat cheerier than normal, so I thought it would be ok. He actually spoke to me; “it’s fine. It’s not like I’m going anywhere” he chuckled. I walked back into 221b 30 minutes later, I could hear fumbling upstairs. Was he walking? I hurried up the stairs; anxious. He wasn’t in his chair. I looked in the kitchen; not there either. It was then I heard a loud thump, coming from the bathroom down the corridor. I ran in, dropping the groceries on the floor. The main door was locked, so I swung round into Sherlock’s room. I busted through the glass door, to see Sherlock laying on the floor, pills in his shaking hand; mouth foaming. My eyes widened as I saw Sherlock overdosing before me. I thought he was going to be ok, it was only half an hour. I stayed at him in shock.   
Don’t solve the crime, save the life.  
I recollected grabbing his head, holding it steady and trying to lay him in the recovery position. His eyes rolled back till there was just white; blank. I did everything I could. Everything I knew as a doctor. But it wasn’t working. Nothing was. The ambulance came in 10 minutes, and I stayed with him the whole time. I can’t remember much from then on, but it was then, that I promised I’d never leave him. Ever.   
From in heaven or hell, I never left him.  
The day I lost him, was the day I died.


End file.
